


Lead Me Not Into Temptation

by Fenix21



Series: In My Silence 'Verse [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Big Brother Dean, Hurt! Sam, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, brothers taking care of each other, hurt!Dean, john winchester is an obsessed bastard, mute!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 06:46:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7424221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fenix21/pseuds/Fenix21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has decided Sam needs a push in the wrong direction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

August 2000

 

Dean scrubbed a hand across his eyes and fought to pull himself out of the fog of too little sleep. His phone was buzzing insistently on the bedside table. It stopped for a count of three and then started buzzing again. Sam moaned a little in his sleep, and Dean reached for the phone, taking incredible care not to jostle Sam at all. 

The kid had been awake most of the night, unable to get to sleep because of the pain in his cracked ribs. John had sent them after a Revenant four days ago, and Sam had taken a hard beating from it in the confines of the mausoleum where its body was buried. Dean had even broken the Winchester code of 'no hospital unless you're dying' because Sam had barely been able to draw a full breath by the time Dean got him back to the car, and he'd been pretty damn afraid the kid had a collapsed lung. 

'…'ello?' Dean mumbled into the phone.

'Dean.'

'Dad.'  Dean tried to keep the tired frustration out of his voice. 

'I need you up, dressed, and ready to move in twenty.'

Sam moaned again, moved his cheek against Dean's bare chest. Dean pushed a hand into his hair to still him. 'Dad, Sam's in rough shape. That Revenant you sent us after—'

'Leave him.'

Dean's brain came fully back on line at that. 'Leave him,' he repeated, darkly.

John sighed heavily. 'We don't need him. It's a short job. We'll be back by the end of the week.'

Dean scowled, fingers moving in absent, slow circles in Sam's hair. 'That Revenant beat him to shit, sir. I really don't want to leave him—'

'Make up your goddamn mind, Dean!' John shouted. 

Dean jerked the phone away from his ear at the sudden increase in volume and glanced down quickly at Sam to see if their father's voice had carried. Sam laid still against him.

'You bitch at me every time I want to bring him on a hunt,' John continued, agitated. 'So, I tell you to leave him behind, and you don't want to do that either!'

Dean snapped his jaw shut against the venomous retort on his tongue. He didn't give a good goddamn if John needed Sam on a hunt as an extra pair of hands, or eyes, or a good shot. It was when John kept trying to expose him to demons and force him to root them out of their unhallowed warrens that Dean got well and truly pissed. Ever since that night six months ago…

'I'll be there in fifteen minutes, Dean,' John snapped. 'Be ready.'

The line went silent. 

'Fuck.' Dean dropped the phone over the edge of the mattress. 

Long, slender fingers found their way to the base of his throat and stroked into the deep hollow there.

Dad?

Dean blew out an angry breath. 'Yeah. He'll be here in fifteen minutes. He needs me on a hunt.'

Sam made an effort to shift upward, tip his face to see Dean's, but his breath hitched in pain at the movement, and Dean pressed a warm hand to the small of his back.

'Sammy, be still. Don't move. Just rest.'

Sam spread his hand against Dean's breastbone. 

I'm okay. I'll be okay. Go, if you have to.

Dean covered his hand and pressed it against his skin. 'I don't want to go. Jesus, Sam, you're in crap shape. I don't want to leave you like this.'

Sam twisted his wrist so Dean could lace their fingers together.

I've had worse. Go.

Dean bit off a sharp curse and squeezed Sam's hand hard. He very carefully shifted to the side, supporting Sam's weight the whole time until he could get up off the mattress and stuff pillows into place where he had been laying. Sam whined a little as he settled into the pillows and his body shifted that fraction of an inch that brought back all the pain. Dean swore again, turned to dig around in his duffle for jeans, shorts, and a tee, yanked them on, and then went in search of painkillers in their med-kit. 

Sam insisted on forcing himself up enough to swallow the pills and most of the glass of water Dean brought just to prove to them both that he was still mobile and he would survive without Dean, at least for a couple of days. Dean stood at the bedside, barefoot, and watched him warily.

'There's still some cans of soup in the cupboard, and some eggs and juice in the fridge. You shouldn't need to go out, at least,' Dean said. He fished out his wallet and laid out a couple of twenties on the table. 'Just in case. We should only be gone a couple of days, though, three tops.'

Sam laid back down, gingerly, eyes tracking Dean as he moved around the room to gather up his weapons and a few necessities into a duffle. He reached across the mattress, tapped it to get Dean's attention.

What are you hunting?

Dean sat down on the opposite bed to lace up his boots. 'Dad didn't say. Just said it was short. Easy. We should be back by the end of the week.' He yanked the laces snug and stuffed the loose ends down inside his boots. He sat up straight and looked over at Sam with tender annoyance. 'You go back to sleep. The most strenuous thing I want you doin' while I'm gone is to lift the remote.'

Sam rolled his eyes. Dean chuckled and stood up to ruffle Sam's hair and then lean down and kiss the crown of his head, his temple, the corner of his mouth, where he whispered,

'Love you, Sammy. Be back in a flash.'

As if on cue, John's truck horn blared from outside. Dean stood up, frowning.  'Fuckin' hell, Dad. You'll wake the whole damn place.' 

The dim numbers on the bedside clock had only just ticked over to 5:13am. 

Sam gave Dean's fingers a swift tug and smiled up at him, tired but true.

Love you, too, Dean.

Dean nodded, swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat, and then disappeared out the door as John laid on the horn again.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean had seen hunts go wrong. He knew how the balance of power could change between one breath and the next. He knew no matter how well prepared you were, chance was still a factor, and it didn't always weigh in on your side. 

John had said this was an easy hunt—low level possession easy enough one person could have handled it—but John's rule was that none of them did an exorcism alone. Dean was honestly a little surprised he'd stuck to his own rule and even more surprised he hadn't forced the issue of bringing Sam along. John always wanted Sam along on demon hunts these days, no matter how much Dean railed and protested. So, it was supposed to be easy. Lure the thing, lock it in a Devil's Trap, exorcise it. John didn't even seem particularly interested in any information it might have for them, which should have set the alarm bells off for Dean a whole lot sooner. What neither of them expected was that the thing had backup, and of a whole lot more powerful variety than itself, though it never actually showed its face. It busted up the Devil's Trap easy as a hot knife through butter, and Dean was standing too close.

John either hadn't bothered disarming the thing before he tossed it in the trap, or he missed the big damn Bowie knife it had strapped up the back of its jacket. 

Most demon weapons were poisoned, caused a kind of paralysis and then made you feel like your whole body was dipped in acid and lit on fire, which wasn't really the biggest problem they had since John kept a small reservoir's worth of holy water in the truck bed. It was the fact that the knife was big and sharp and the demon had a long reach, and now Dean was afraid if he unwrapped his arms from around his middle, his guts would spill out all over the back of the cab. 

'Just keep the pressure on, Dean,' John said from the front. 'You're fine. You're gonna be fine. It's not as bad as it feels. I promise.'

John's voice was way too calm in Dean's estimation for his son having been nearly flayed open by a piss-ant demon not hardly worth the Latin it took to incarcerate its ass back to Hell, but Dean was still conscious which probably meant that by some miracle John was right and the knife hadn't cut any major arteries. Dean imagined it would have been lights out pretty damn quick if it had. He was still afraid to take a breath, though, for fear he'd feel his innards leaking past the compression bandage John had strapped on him and come gushing through his fingers. 

He assumed they were headed for a hospital, so he was surprised when the truck rolled to a stop and the familiar garish orange neon sign for their motel was visible through the back window. John swung out of the cab and Dean could hear him banging on a door, yelling for Sam. Next he knew, John was at his head, working his shoulders up off the seat and Sam had crawled in on the other side and was lifting his legs and they were carrying him into the room. 

John had been a medic in corp. He'd seen some shit. He'd patched up some nastier shit, but Dean wasn't sure he was up to the task of putting his insides back in the right order. Sam apparently was not either because even though he was silent as the grave, John was responding to him as if he were yelling at the top of his lungs. 

'Sam, calm down,' John snapped as he rummaged through their medical supplies. 'It's not as bad as it looks. I _do_ know what I'm doing. He's lost some blood, but not too much. He's still conscious. If we can keep him from going into shock, all the better.'

Dean couldn't see much. There was sweat and tears in his eyes making his vision blurry. He could see Sam in his peripheral vision, or sense him there at any rate, and the fury rolling off of him was palpable. 

'Don't just stand there!' John yelled. 'Get his shirts off. Get me a pan of hot water and the butane torch out of the weapons duffle. Then go down to the office and get some more clean towels.' 

Dean could feel Sam moving around to do their father's bidding, still fuming. He would have been screaming his bloody head off at John while he was doing it if he could talk right now, but he _was_ doing it. Except when it came to leaving for the linens. Sam wasn't letting Dean out of his sight apparently because John told him again, yelled at him, then gave up with a string of angry epithets.

'Fine! You want him to get an infection because you wouldn't leave him long enough for clean towels, that's on you.'

Sam still stubbornly refused, and Dean felt the mattress dip a little at his side as Sam sat down and went to work cutting up the front of his t-shirt so John could get at the wound. Then he threw the scissors aside and took post at Dean's head and refused to move again. Dean could hear John's huff of aggravation and mumbling somewhere near his feet, but he didn't much care what the man was saying when Sam's fingers began stroking through his hair. 

'Sammy…'

He meant it as a warning, to be careful how much he let show, in case John took notice of the intimate gesture or the look Dean was pretty sure was on Sam's face right now; but it came out as more of a plea, and Sam's other hand went to rest against his breastbone just below the hollow of his throat. Dean could feel him pressing down and then down harder, and then he felt the pressure bandage pulled away and his insides were oozing out of him, all down his sides, and onto the bed. He dragged in a breath to scream, but Sam was suddenly bent over him, long, messy silken fall of hair blocking out everything except his brilliantly shining eyes, and then Sam's lips were on his, kissing away his breath and his scream and his consciousness like a Shtriga taking a soul. 

***

When Dean came to, it was only just barely. He could tell there were drugs in his system, and the good kind, too. He couldn't see anything clearly and what sounds there were sounded like they were coming to him underwater, but he wasn't in any pain at least. His torso was bound up tight with gauze bandages and medical tape, but other than that he seemed okay, and he could feel all his extremities. Thank God for that. He didn't bother trying to move. Past experience had taught him that maneuver would likely only result in nausea and vomiting. His tongue felt thick and cottony, but he wallowed it around behind his teeth a little and finally managed,

'Sammy…?'

A tall blur that was very obviously Sam was above him, front and center in his vision, so quickly that Dean was sure he'd been sitting somewhere close, waiting for any sign of consciousness from his brother. Then there was moisture at his lips, an ice cube that Sam held there, running it along his bottom lip and letting the water slowly trickle over his tongue until Dean opened his mouth and took it from him. He sucked on it for a minute, blinking to try and clear his vision a little, but it really didn't help. His brain was fuzzy and firing off at random. He could barley get a coherent sentence together without giving himself a headache.

'How bad?' he finally asked. 

Sam leaned over a little and traced a finger over the bandages from under Dean's ribs on the right side to just below his navel in a wide arc. No wonder his guts had felt like they were falling out, Dean thought.

'Dad get my innards put back together in alphabetical order?'

He was trying to be funny to reassure Sam that he was okay, though he hadn't had enough of a chance to really take stock himself, but it didn't work. Sam was suddenly pressed up against him, cheek mashed to Dean's, wet with tears, and he was hugging Dean as hard as he dared and shaking.

'So, that's a 'no' then?' Dean tried again, pressing the joke.

Sam shook his head, clearly frustrated with his bother's attempts at nonchalance. Dean turned his head and kissed him on the cheek in apology.

'Your guts are right where they should be. It wasn't that bad.'

Dean started at the sound of John's voice, and the pain he hadn't been feeling suddenly flared to life in his side. Sam responded to his tension by putting a protective hand against his chest to keep him from moving unnecessarily and hovering over him. Dean tried to zero in on his father's gruff voice and could only make out a dark shadow near the door. 

'It was just the leftover poison in your system that made it feel like you were coming apart. 'S the whole point of the stuff,' John said. 'Demon's lie.'

Well, that was fine to say, but in the moment it had sure as hell felt like his intestines were spilling out onto the sheets. He veered away from the memory to keep from being sick, and slurred,

'Yessir.'

'Sam, give him another Dilaudid and get over here.'

Sam's fingers tightened on Dean in rebellion, and Dean clumsily reached to cover his hand and squeeze it weakly. 'S okay, Sammy. I'm good. Need to sleep anyway. Go.'

Sam twitched, like he was still considering disobedience, but then Dean felt a pill pressed to his lips followed by a straw and then another ice cube. Sam smoothed his hand over Dean's hair several times while he drifted off in the relative silence as the new drugs started to take hold and draw him down. 

He barely registered Sam moving off the bed, and through the thick, black curtain of onsetting sleep, he thought he must have already started to dream because he swore he could hear Sam's voice through an odd kind of resonance in the air. Air that had grown heavy, like it was loaded with static buildup, and pressed him back into the mattress, made it hard to breathe. 

'Don't you take this out on me!'

That was John. He was shouting, but it sounded… It sounded almost like he was afraid.

There was a low rumbling and something thudded against the wall.

YOU _did this to him!_

'It was the demon, Sam,' John hedged. 'You want to blame something, blame it!'

Dean's dream was getting stranger now, because there were objects flying around the room, randomly, most of them aimed in John's direction but flying wide at the last second.

YOU _took him out there!_

Dean tried to pull in a breath, to call to Sam and tell him to calm down, because he knew all this had something to do with him. He'd lost his temper, and it was turning ugly. But the air was growing heavier and heavier, more charged, and Sam's voice almost sounded like it was inside Dean's head, echoing around in his skull.

_This wouldn't have happened if I'd been there!_

'Sam, I didn't know. I swear, I didn't. But if you want him…' John paused, and Dean's blood froze solid in his veins, breath hung up on a scream of warning in his chest. '…I can find him, Sammy. I know where he is.'

Everything went suddenly silent. The atmosphere was still charged and thick, but Dean was in total darkness now, spiraling out of the dream and down into a deep, drug induced sleep. He tried to hold on, screamed out in the dark,

'Don't, Sammy! Don't!'

Because he'd heard the thin thread of challenge in John's voice.

He fell further, sightlessness and silence closing in, but just before he slipped completely under, he heard,

_Take me to it. Now._


	3. Chapter 3

Sam sat rigid in the truck's passenger seat, pressed tight to the door, staring straight ahead, while John drove them past the outskirts of the city, toward the rundown industrial district that was comprised of crumbling concrete monoliths and the rusting metal hulks of abandoned construction equipment. It wasn't the same place John had taken Dean. Sam was sure. Dean had been gone two days, but it took John ten hours of straight driving to get to this place, and Sam was sure—at least he hoped he was—that even John wouldn't have tried to drive so far with Dean so badly injured. 

They'd sat in silence the whole way, only the sound of the the asphalt beneath them and a bout of rain on the windshield. John even left the radio off. It put Sam on edge. He was used to Dean blasting Metallica and Led Zeppelin from the speakers while the wind whipped their hair through the open window. He hadn't traveled with John in a long while, and never alone in his living memory, not any distance anyway. John made no overtures toward conversation, not that it would have done any good, and only asked twice if Sam needed a rest stop for the bathroom or food. 

It was just as well because Sam's blood was still running hot from his tantrum at the motel. He'd kept his cool when John had come banging on the door to the room in the middle of the night, and Sam had opened it to find him covered in blood that was not his own but Dean's. He'd continued to keep it while John proceeded to perform his own brand of triage and surgery on his eldest son who needed a hospital and a doctor and probably the ICU for the ten inch gash across his mid-section. He'd even kept it when Dean had screamed at the pain, bending down to kiss him into silence, their father's shocked and disgusted intake of breath be damned. Sam wasn't actually sure John had noticed in the midst of everything, but he didn't care if he had either.  He'd kept it, too, when John had cleaned up, dosed Dean with some pain medication and then headed across the street to the bar and grill with a cursory word to Sam to keep an eye on his brother and call if he started to spike a fever. He'd been gone the rest of the night. It was after Dean had woken under his own power and assured Sam with his own voice that he was among the living and would remain so for the forceable future that Sam finally let the fury take hold. 

Sam knew he could move things with his mind. He'd discovered the ability about a year ago, but he hadn't told anyone. Not even Dean. Especially not Dean. Because even if his brother wouldn't admit it, Sam knew he was completely freaked out by the connection Sam had to the demon world, and recent events had only made it worse. Besides, it gave him a horrible migraine to try and do it deliberately. Last night, though, he'd been so furious he couldn't help himself, and that apparently gave his ability a power boost. Things were flying around the room in no time, and even though John had backed up against the door in fear, there was something much more calculating in the depths of his dark, sharp eyes as he dodged ill-aimed projectiles comprised of anything loose in the room. 

The moment John had promised to deliver the demon responsible for hurting Dean, Sam had felt like his plug was pulled. He was still shaking, vibrating with energy right down to his bones, and his blood was still rushing hot in his veins, but it gave him a focus, something he could legitimately cause harm to and kill. John was off limits, no matter how much Sam blamed him for what happened, if for no other reason than Dean would never accept that John was responsible for his injuries, and maybe he wasn't directly, but John had found the hunt and insisted on taking Dean with him. That was enough to convict him Sam's eyes. 

'We're here,' John said shortly, pulling the truck up outside an abandoned, run-down warehouse whose loading dock doors were hanging askew from their hinges. He threw the truck in park and killed the engine. 'I'll go in first, scope the place out, and get it ready.'

He started to get out, but Sam reached across the seat and fisted his hand in John's coat.

No.

John had never become adept at reading Sam in the way Dean had, but there were some gestures that were unmistakable. After a moment's deliberation, John gave him a curt nod of acceptance, and Sam let him go and slid out the passenger side door. 

The interior of the warehouse was not as abandoned as the outside would leave casual passers-by to believe. Through a maze of shipping containers and seemingly haphazardly placed partitions, there was a small area that resembled something like living quarters. A mattress, a pile of clothes, a laptop, a hotplate, and a half dozen stacks of arcane looking books. John did a sweep of the immediate area and then yanked the mattress out of the way and proceeded to spray paint a Devil's Trap beneath it. He said nothing, shared none of his plan—if he even had one—with Sam. Sam didn't really care, though, his only concern was the demon. So he left John to his work, pulled his hands up inside the sleeves of his hoody, and stood staring out the large windows overhead as they began to lighten with the approach of dawn.

 

Demons didn't need sleep, so it was pattern for them to be out all night when the world was rife with souls at play, doing things they wouldn't dare in the light of day, sinning indiscriminately where the shadows of the night could provide them anonymity. Sam imagined the only reason for the mattress was when the demon decided to bring his work home with him, no doubt drugged and senseless. He hoped tonight would not be one of those nights. He hated having an audience. 

John had hid him well back from the demon's nest, told him to wait until he'd got into the trap. It was the usual drill. But Sam was still running hot, still wanted to take out his rage on the thing that had dealt his brother such a near death blow. Some of that rage was for himself, he knew. He was ridden with guilt that he had not been there to deal with the demon the first time, whether or not John had divulged the nature of the hunt or Dean would have let him in his less than bristol condition. 

He shifted his position a little, reminded of the cracks in two of his ribs, and blew out a harsh breath through his nose. If Dean had been conscious when they'd left, Sam knew he never would have gotten away. Dean would have thrown an unholy fit and torn every one of his stitches in trying to stop Sam from going on the mere principle that he was still in no shape to fight. But John's offer was too much to resist in the frame of mind Sam was in, so he'd given Dean an extra Dilaudid and left a note. 

The shuffle of footsteps and a low, off-key humming drew Sam's attention to the loading dock doors. The demon was swaggering in, a rakish smile on his tanned face, leafing through a stack of cash and singing to himself. It was alone. Sam's eyes flicked to John, but John's attention was already zeroed in on the demon. It strolled through the empty warehouse right up to the partitions loosely strung together to create his nest and then stopped. Sam could see its eyes slide to the right and then the left, and then its smile grew wide and gruesome across its face.

'Hey, Johnny-boy,' it called. 'Didn't expect to see you in this part of town.'

If John was thrown by the demon's recognition of him, he didn't show it. He stayed hunched down behind the stack of wooden pallets at the far end of the nest and said nothing.

'C'mon now, John. No need to be shy,' the demon taunted. 

Sam twitched but forced himself to stay still and silent until John made his move. The demon was inching forward, looking all around his nest for anything displaced, any hint of where its intruders were hiding. It sniffed the air, like a dog catching a scent, turned slowly toward Sam and pulled in a slow breath, smiling.

'Oh, John…so thoughtful! You brought me the other son to fillet.'

Sam's heart slammed into his chest. His hands fisted so tight that his nails bit into his palms. John threw him a quick, hard look, and it took everything Sam had to stay down, stay hidden.

The demon turned in a circle again, scenting the air. Its smile abruptly vanished. 'I'm bored, John. It's been a long night. Let's get this over with, shall we?'

John got up then, rising to his full height and coming around the tower of pallets, shotgun tucked to his shoulder. The demon grinned coldly and shook his head.

'Really? Guns? I thought you knew better by now.'

John grinned back, just as icily. 'Hollow points with holy water. Might not kill you, but it'll still sting your ass.'

'Mmm. Creative. I like it,' the demon sneered. He backed up a step toward the bed as John eased forward. 'Gonna invite your boy to the proceedings? How is Dean anyway?'

John said nothing, just pushed forward another step. The demon shuffled back a little more, but not close enough to the bed to activate the Devil's Trap hidden beneath it and the strewn out sheets. Its eyes were scanning the perimeter, seeking Sam out. Sam could feel it like a pressure at the back of his skull.

'You know, I'm not the one you want, Johnny,' the demon said. 

'No, but you're one step closer,' John said evenly.

'And you'd put your boy in harm's way just for little 'ole me?' the demon sing-songed.

Sam froze. John's gaze darted to him. The demon tracked on it and its grin widened. 'Oh, there you are, Sammy.'

Sam's blood turned to ice as the demon's gaze locked onto his hiding spot. 

'Your daddy's a bit on the obsessed side, isn't he, Sammy?' the demon said. 'Putting sweet Dean out as bait for my little pet on the off chance that I'd show up for the festivities? It's a bit of a stretch don't you think?'

Sam was shaking now, heart pounding in his chest, making his ribs and his throat ache. His palms were slick with blood and stinging with tiny, crescent shaped wounds.

'I can smell your blood, Sammy…' the demon sang. 'Smells so good. Black and tainted…powerful.'

Sam launched out of hiding and came at the demon head on.

'Sam, no!' John yelled.

But it was too late.

Sam was too close by the time the demon discovered it had made two errors, one of which was going to prove fatal. First, it was backing up straight into a Devil's Trap, and second—it had just mouthed off to Sam-fucking-Winchester. If the growing rumors were to be believed, it was about to be sent to the back of the line in Hell for the next few millennia.

The usual drill was once the demon was in the trap and restrained, Sam went in with it. To do what he did—most of which even he didn't understand—he had to be in physical contact with the host. That was the part Dean didn't like. It was dangerous no matter how good the trap was, or how well restrained the demon was. Low level grunts were usually pretty powerless—on a physical level at any rate—but the more powerful ones weren't always completely swayed but he Traps. Once Sam was inside them, or melded with them, or whatever hocus-pocus name you wanted to lay on it, the playing field tended to be a little more level, and that's when Sam was most likely to take damage. 

Like he had six months ago with the demon John had said was about as important as the dirt under a doormat in Hell, but had turned out to be a little bit higher up the food chain. It'd slipped the trap and gone after John first. Dean was next, pinned up on the opposite wall like a bug in some child's school project, while the demon choked the life out of John slowly. Dean had said nothing, except to yell obscenities and threats at the demon which only made it laugh. He hadn't asked Sam to save either of them. In fact, the thought probably hadn't consciously occurred to him until Sam was moving, coming up on the demon from behind, because it was distracted with its current playthings, and Sam had a way of staying in the corner of the eye if he tried hard enough.

Dean had managed to force them both into the Trap once Sam had a grip on the demon, but this one was more powerful than what he was used to, and even if the battle was on the mental plane, the resulting injuries had manifested physically enough. It had been a close thing, getting a mental grip on that one and exorcising his ass to Hell. Sam had been afraid. Afraid for John and afraid for Dean, and the resulting desperation had pushed him hard enough to win.

Now, though, Sam was not afraid. He was enraged.

The demon was babbling now in some hell-spawn Latin offshoot, but it didn't seem to be doing it any good because its eyes just kept getting bigger and rounder as Sam came at it. It ended up stumbling on the mattress and huddling there inside the Trap like it was protection rather than incarceration. Sam stopped at the edge, hands still fisted at his sides, but he could feel the hot flush of fury on his cheeks and the way his lip was curled back in a snarl. In the very peripheral of his vision, John backed up a step, gun still at the ready, but pointed now somewhere between the demon and Sam. 

In the pit of his stomach, he could feel something unfold and stretch, lazy and languorous, and grin toothily before it reached to spread itself in dark, curling tendrils all along his nerve endings, sending a buzzing, pressurized sensation of power all through him. His entire body vibrated with it. 

He slowly reached out a hand, and the demon screamed.

'Sam, we need—' John started, but Sam twitched a finger and the demon spasmed, spewed blood, and screamed again.

_Tell me what I want to know._

'Anything! Anything! What! What do you want?'

_A name._

'N-name? Name? What name?'

Sam tilted his chin up a fraction, hooked his fingers and lifted, and the demon rose up off the ground, screaming, chest leeching blood in sluggish rivers from invisible wounds.

_Look inside my head. Tell me who is in my dreams._

 The demon felt silent for a few seconds, concentration pulling at its brow, but then its eyes shot wide and its face when white.

'N-no. No, I don't—'

Sam made a fist and the demon's entire body convulsed in concert with another scream.

_You do. Now. Tell me._

Sam tightened his fist, twisted it at the wrist. The demon screamed, mewled, coughed up blood thick with tissue from inner organs that were being pulverized in Sam's grip.

'If I tell—!' 

Sam tightened his fingers so his nails pierced into his flesh in a new set of little crescent wound. Blood ran over his palm and down his wrist and soaked into the sleeve of his hoodie. 

'Azazel!' the demon screeched.

Sam unfurled his fingers, and the demon went slack, hanging in the air like a pig on a meathook in a slaughterhouse, waiting to be gutted. Then he made a slow fist again, raising it up in front of him, and the demon shuddered, convulsed, and choked on its own blood. There was a crackling of dark energy around the body, sparking sickly orange, and the demon's eyes turned black then white and then burst into flame.

When Sam unfurled his fingers this time, the body dropped into a broken heap on the ground in a pool of its own fluids. He stood there, staring, snarl still on his lips, power still rushing and ebbing in his veins. John approached the body cautiously, knelt down to feel for a pulse, though there was little chance the host had survived through that. He looked up at Sam, jaw slack, and his eyes went wide with fear.

Sam stared down at him, saw his reflection in his father's eyes—saw black. And black. And more black. He stumbled back a step, suddenly shaking too fiercely to stand, eyes riveted on that horrific reflection. He dropped to his knees, breath coming short and erratic. He clawed at the neck of his hoodie and t-shirt, like they were choking him. John made a half hearted attempt to reach out to him, but Sam scrambled back, doubled over on his hands and knees, retching on the cold concrete.  Tears streamed down his face as he choked on silent, gasping sobs, mouth forming his brother's name over and over again.

'Sam…' John tried again.

Sam shoved backward, glared at John through the tears, then he tipped his head back and screamed.


	4. Chapter 4

When the truck door slammed, Dean was on his feet and halfway across the room when the room door flew open in his face and a hundred and sixty pounds of little brother hurtled through it and tackled him where he stood, sending an arc of pain up his side and his breath straight out of his lungs, and the two of them into a haphazard tangle on the bed. It took Dean point-zero seconds to realize Sam was sobbing uncontrollably and soaking his shirtfront. He screwed down a lid on the pain in his side and extricated himself from Sam's gangly, grasping limbs only enough to sit up and get a better grip on him, shifting to cradle him carefully against his uninjured side.

'Sammy? Sammy… Jesus, I've been worried shitless about you,' Dean said, pushing a hand into Sam's tangled, messy hair and rubbing at his scalp. But the kid wouldn't be consoled. He pawed and clung and came just short of climbing into Dean's lap. 'Sam, c'mon. Talk to me. What happened?'

There had been a note, which was more that Dean usually got when John decided to up and follow some random lead in the middle of the night, but it had been vague, saying nothing of what John and Sam were going after, though it didn't take a brain-surgeon to guess after what had happened to Dean, and that would be John's doing. The man had a real thing about revenge.

Dean slipped a hand between them and tried to raise Sam's face to his, but Sam ducked him, forcing his hot, wet face further into the curve of Dean's neck. Dean tried to disentangle his fingers from his shirtfront next, and his breath caught in his throat when he saw the dried blood in Sam's palms and the scabbed over marks from where his own fingernails had cut into him.

'Holy Hell, Sammy…what happened?' Dean asked as he carefully pried open Sam's fingers. Sam just jerked his hand back and grabbed at Dean's shirt again.

'He killed it.'

John was standing in the door, leaning into the frame, watching them like he was trying to decide if he was even going to come in long enough to lose his jacket and boots, or just turn around and take off again. Sam convulsed at his words, clinging harder than ever to Dean. Dean tightened his hold and stared up at John over the top of Sam's head.

'What the _fuck_ happened?' he demanded. His voice was low and cold and warning, but the heated rush of fury building in him stalled out when he saw the wariness in his father's eyes. It was as close to fear as Dean had ever openly seen on John's face, and it was focused on Sam.

John twitched his head, a nervous tick maybe, or an unconscious denial of something—an unnatural reaction from the man at any rate. He kept his eyes on Sam, and Dean's stomach clenched when he recognized the Hunter gleam filtering up through that new wary caution.

'He killed it,' he said again.

'Killed what?' Dean asked.

'The demon.'

'You mean he exorcised it,' Dean corrected, eyes narrowing. 'Goddamnit, Dad, I told you he wasn't—'

'He _killed_ it.'

Dean's jaw fell open on his last words and then snapped shut tight. Sam curled up on himself in his arms and tried to pull away. Dean jerked him back tight into his side without sparing him a glance, bit down on the hiss of pain the sharp motion caused and glared at his father.

'He…what?'

John shifted his gaze finally to Dean's, and that gleam had caught fire. 'He killed it. Without so much as touching it. He just…killed it.'

Sam had gone still against Dean, tucked up so tightly he was almost in a fetal ball on the bed beside him, muscles straining away from Dean. 

'The host?' Dean asked in a very deliberately even tone.

John jerked his head to the negative.

Dean shifted, reached across Sam's back and curved around him as far as he could with his mobility limited by the tape and stitches and pain. 'Sammy, shhhh. Shhh… It's all right. You did what you had to do.' He looked up at John, eyes narrowing. 'You son of a bitch. You ever put him in a situation like that again, and I'll shoot you myself.'

John advanced into the room, loomed over the two of them, face etched in fury and disgust that only barely covered over the sick victory in his eyes. 'I'm not the one you'll have to worry about shooting, Dean,' he said. 'The boy has to learn to achieve his potential, and you… _coddling_ him like you do, isn't helping him.'

'Achieve his p—?' Dean stared, disbelieving. 'You…set this up. You set him up. You set _me_ up!'

Sam exploded suddenly off the bed in a flurry of movement so fast Dean couldn't track it much less stop him. One second John was above them both, his anger palpable over the little distance, and the next he was across the room, sprawled against the far wall, mouth bleeding. Sam was standing just out of his reach, shoulders heaving, whole body shaking.

'Sam, you calm down!' John shouted.

Sam shifted forward, and Dean was stunned when John stumbled sideways to keep the distance between them. 

'Sammy?' Dean said cautiously.

Sam's head snapped around and in the second before he blinked, Dean swore he saw black. 

'Sammy…'

For a moment longer Sam stood there, something dangerous and unrecognizable in his eyes, and then his face crumpled, mouth twisting around a silent sob, and then the rest of him followed, a slow motion collapse to the floor in a twisted heap. Dean threw himself down, gathering Sam up against him and rocking him, enveloping him and hiding him from John and the world, holding him safe. Containing him. 

'Get out,' he whispered, voice dark and diamond hard.

He didn't bothering to look to see if John followed his command.

The door slammed a few seconds later, and the truck roared to life and sped out of the parking lot, tires squealing a little on the turn into the street. 

Beneath him, Sam shuddered and shook, and Dean held him and said nothing.

***

 Later—minutes, maybe hours—Sam sat hunched on the bed, face splotched red from his crying, but silent now, eyes glassy and blank, closed up and closed off. 

Dean sat on his knees between Sam's feet with the room's ice bucket and a warm washcloth and scrubbed gently and meticulously at each of Sam's fingers, under his nails, paying special attention to the creases in his palms, careful to avoid the crescent cuts, until all the blood was gone.

'Sammy, listen to me,' Dean said quietly, not looking his brother in the eyes. It wouldn't have done any good anyway. Sam was far beyond seeing anything but whatever horror was replaying behind his own lids. 'None of this is on you. Not one _damn_ bit of it.'

Sam didn't so much as twitch. 

Dean rubbed ointment into Sam's palms and wrapped them lightly in gauze. It wasn't strictly necessary, but it kept his hands busy while his brain was racing, planing the next move, because they were _not_ going to be here when, or if, John returned. He was still a little shellshocked that his own father had set him up like he had, made him bait, and not even to catch and kill their quarry, but specifically for Dean to be hurt badly enough that it would push Sam over whatever edge John believed was holding him back. 

Maybe he'd seen it, too, six months ago. Or maybe even earlier. Maybe Dean had insisted on staying blind because he didn't want to admit what was inside his little brother. Somehow, he believed, Sam could be cured, or whatever path the stain of demon blood in his veins put on him could be sponged out. Dean just had to have long enough to find the answer. But he was out of time. His only option now was to stall, to take Sam and run, as far and as fast as he could and try and stay ahead of John and whatever it was he wanted from Sam.

Dean wouldn't kid himself. He knew what John wanted, had always known, but the price he was willing to pay made Dean wonder if he hadn't become more of a monster than the thing he hunted. 

Dean stood up slowly. He was in no shape to be doing much more than laying around watching daytime soaps, at least not for a couple more days, and certainly not to be taking off in the middle of the day and driving God knew where for however long it took to be sure John wouldn't follow. At least not right away. He was going to do it anyway, though. 

He washed out the bucket, rinsed the washcloth, and went back to the bed. Sam hadn't budged, not even twitched, maybe not even blinked. Dean took hold of his shoulders and very slowly pressed him back onto the bed. Sam went without protest. Dean lifted his feet up and then covered him with the other half of the comforter that he wasn't laying on.

'You rest, Sam. Just lay there and rest. I'm gonna get our stuff together.' For a moment, coherence flitted across Sam's face and he frowned vaguely. Dean passed a hand through his hair to calm him. 'I'll be fine. I may be no good for a one-on-one with a Were just yet, but I'll live otherwise.'

Sam blinked once, slowly, and then his eyes defocused again. They didn't close, and Dean didn't suggest that they should, didn't mention anything about sleep, because he knew what waited for Sam in his dreams, and after what he'd just be through, Dean was sure the nightmares would be worse than ever. 

He left Sam lay there and worked his way around the room methodically, efficiently packing up what little had made it out of their bags. He dragged it all to the door, not lifting more than was absolutely necessary. No sense in exhausting himself. He sat down, after he'd made a last pass through the bathroom and the kitchenette, to take a breather and thumb through the contacts on his phone. He wished he could take Sam to Jim's or Uncle Bobby's, but John would call there first when he discovered his sons were gone. Dean knew either of them would take him and Sam in and not breathe a word to John if he asked it of them, but he didn't want to ask it. He didn't want to force them to lie. Maybe it would be possible later, and Jim could help Dean suss out what he needed to do to help Sam at least cope if it turned out there was no cure. Dean didn't like that thought, and he wouldn't admit it to himself in actual words, but in his gut he knew this—whatever this was—had already gone too far.

He snapped the phone shut and stooped to grab his boots. He carried them to the bed and sat down facing Sam, who was still laying on his side, staring into nothingness.

'You about ready, Sam?' he asked quietly. 'You can rest more in the car, but I want to get on the road. Sooner the better.' He dropped his boots between his feet and sighed. 'Now, for the fun part.'

He held his breath against the pain that was sure to come from his doubling over to tie his own damn boots and was about to bend down when Sam slid from the bed in one easy, fluid move, and knelt on the floor. He gently pressed Dean upright and then went to loosening the laces on Dean's right boot. Dean hesitated a second and then pushed his foot in and let Sam lace it tight and tie it. He did the same with the other boot. When he was done, he stayed on the floor, still kneeling, head bowed, almost like he was at prayer. Then he slowly reached for for Dean's hand. He cupped it in his own for a moment, just staring at it, shaggy hair hiding his eyes and any expression on his face. He lifted it, unfurled Dean's fingers and stroked over his palm several times with his fingertips. Sparks skittered and raced up Dean's arm and fanned out through the rest of him, but he ignored them. That was not what this was about. Sam poised his index finger over the middle of Dean's palm, waited a few seconds to be sure Dean was paying attention and then very slowly and clearly drew out the letters:

_A-Z-A-Z-E-L_

When he was done, Sam pressed his palm over Dean's tightly, like to hide what he had written there. Dean said the letters to himself and then tested their sound.

'Azazel,' he whispered.

Sam lifted his head, eyes red and puffy from sobbing for so long, but dry now, dry and determined. He nodded once.

Dean blew out a pent up breath. 'The demon Dad's looking for.'

Sam nodded again.

Yes.

'Does he know?'

Sam hesitated, brow drawing down for a moment, then almost reluctantly, he nodded one more time.

Dean turned his hand over, grasped both of Sam's. His gaze flicked around the room, went to the door where John could conceivably burst in again at any second. If only Sam knew the name, they would have had an edge, a chip to bargain with if it ever came to that; but since John knew it, too, when he discovered they had cut and run he would be furious, desperate, nigh onto unstoppable, and very hard to hide from. Fortunately, Dean had learned from the best, and he certainly had his work cut out for him.

'Then we don't have a lot of time,' he said, resigned. He tugged on Sam's hands and pulled them both upright. He reached for his coat and let Sam help him shrug into it, then dug into his pocket for the keys, jingled them once and headed for the door. 'Let's go.'


End file.
